Savage Liberty Read online

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  WHILE LEARNING THE WAYS OF the wilderness from Conawago, Duncan had also learned to read the tracks of the old man’s complex silences. Survivor of a nearly extinct tribe, educated in the best Jesuit schools, visitor to the courts of Paris and London, the aged Nipmuc often stilled his tongue, but never his eyes. Seldom had Duncan seen such intense emotion on his lined countenance. His deep, intelligent eyes were lanced with anguish, but an urgent fear also flickered in them. He responded to Duncan’s questions with a dismissive gesture and a quickened pace, then slowed for a moment as he looked at his hands, as if just noticing the blood on them.

  Duncan knew the old stone-walled warehouse next to Hancock Wharf, where Conawago led him, but he was not familiar with the small door at the north side that the old Nipmuc knocked on. He heard the rattle of a loosened dead bolt; then one of Hancock’s Jamaican dockworkers, a huge man with skin the color of walnut, waved them inside and quickly locked the heavy door behind them, standing guard as they hurried on. Conawago led him down a set of stairs, past stacked crates and racks filled with casks of wine to an inner door, where another man kept watch under a hanging lantern, a heavy iron crow on his lap. He rose, tapped four times, and a moment later the door opened.

  The chamber inside, with walls of blocked granite and a packed-earth floor, had no doubt been intended as a cellar storage vault, but a large canvas floor cloth, bright lanterns, an old sideboard, and a table with several chairs around it had transformed it into a secret but comfortable meeting place. For the moment it appeared more like a charnel house. A pile of bloody rags lay on the floor. An unconscious British solder lay on the long table, his right leg wrapped in blood-soaked bandages that were leaking onto the table, another bloody rag pressed to his ribs. The strip of silver lace on his cuffs indicated that the man was a noncommissioned officer.

  “First the living,” came a familiar voice from the shadows. The man who stepped forward was always well-groomed and clean-shaven, attired in the best Boston could provide. But today John Hancock was unshaven, his expensive clothes torn and soiled. His eyes looked older than his thirty years. A strip of linen was wrapped around a wound in his hand. Long strands of his brown hair had escaped the silk ribbon that bound it at the nape of his neck.

  When Duncan reached for his bloody hand, Hancock gestured to the man on the table. “A none-too-sober Irishman decided to express his feelings about the new taxes with the end of a pitchfork. The wound to his side is a graze with a sickle, but the sergeant’s leg wound has not staunched. I fear a blood vessel has been nicked.”

  Duncan pulled away the bandages. The gash in the man’s side had stopped bleeding and would only need cleansing. The soldier’s britches had been cut open, exposing a discolored thigh with three circular punctures. Bright red blood oozed out of the center hole. “An artery,” Duncan confirmed. “The army has their own surgeons, John. He should be in the infirmary at Castle William.”

  “Not this soldier, Duncan,” Hancock replied. “Not this wound.” There was an unfamiliar tone of warning in his voice.

  Conawago leaned over the sergeant’s leg. “It will take more than cobwebs and moss,” the old Nipmuc said, referring to the usual wilderness treatment for hemorrhages. “He’s pale as a sheet, Duncan; he wouldn’t last the time it took to transport him to the fortress. We need him alive.”

  A dozen questions sprang into Duncan’s mind, but then he looked at the soldier’s pallid face and lifted his wrist for a pulse. The man was dying. “I will have to cut into his flesh to get at the artery. I have no instruments. I need a razor or scalpel. And silk thread with a fine needle. And rip some clean linen for a bandage.”

  “A shipment of medical instruments from Amsterdam arrived last week,” Hancock reported. “Just upstairs. You will have your pick,” he said, and urgently spoke to the man outside the door.

  “And strong spirits,” Duncan added.

  Hancock hesitated. “Surely you will need a steady hand if you—”

  “To clean my instruments and the wound. You have some Scotch from the Hebrides, I recall.”

  “The most expensive crate in my cellars!” the merchant protested. “The governor himself ordered it.”

  “The governor is a mere Englishman. Top off the bottle with some tavern rotgut and he’ll not gauge the difference so long as you charge him top price.”

  Hancock seemed to weigh Duncan’s words.

  “God’s breath, John!” came an impatient voice from the shadows in the corner, “stop counting your halfpence and let the man live!” An elegant figure stepped out of the darkness, stripping off his stylish tan waistcoat as he approached the table. “I am a mere Englishman, Mr. McCallum, but I stand ready to assist.” As he rolled up his sleeves, he saw the suspicion on Duncan’s face. “I have heard of your many talents, sir, and of your secret errands for the Sons.” He extracted an ivory-handled pocketknife and began cutting away more of the sergeant’s britches, then glanced up as if in afterthought. “Livingston, sir, of the Hudson.”

  Duncan and Conawago exchanged an uncertain glance. John Hancock might have been a prince of Boston, but the Livingston family was the prevailing royalty of the Hudson Valley, proprietors of scores of thousands of acres on both sides of the mighty river. Duncan nodded toward the wounded sergeant. “Can I have his name?”

  “Mallory. Does it matter?”

  “It matters a great deal, since I will be speaking with him as I work. Now help me strip off his uniform coat.”

  Duncan forced himself to think of nothing but his patient for the next hour, first using the Scotch—a Skye malt, judging from its peaty taste—to deaden the nerves of the semiconscious soldier, then, as Livingston and the guard held down the sergeant’s shoulders, to clean the wound before lifting the Dutch-made scalpel to open it. As he applied his medical skills, he spoke to the sergeant without expecting reply, asking if the scar on his leg was from a French bayonet, wondering aloud if he had fought in any of the northern campaigns Duncan had joined in the war, inquiring if he knew a Dr. Mallory Duncan had known in Edinburgh. “A habit I picked up in my medical studies,” he explained to a quizzical Livingston. “One of my professors insisted that there was always a spark of consciousness alive in every patient. The talking keeps them distracted and interested in eventually awakening.”

  By the time he finished, his improvised equipment was strewn about the table, including a porringer filled with blood-tinged whiskey; a linen handkerchief with Hancock’s initials, much soiled after use as a tourniquet; and the contents of an elegant sewing box imported from Germany.

  He had tied and snipped the last delicate knot before he realized that he had not seen Conawago since he first bent over the wounded soldier. He was about to ask for him when Hancock pushed a cup of hot tea into his hand. “Will Sergeant Mallory live?” the Boston merchant asked.

  “He lost a great measure of blood, and if he takes to the leg too soon, it could rip open the artery,” Duncan explained. “But I’ve seen men survive much worse after battle.”

  “Praise God,” Hancock rejoined.

  “Praise God for saving one of the enforcers of the duties you so despise?” Duncan said in a low voice, for Hancock’s ears only. “Who mysteriously shows up under your protection on business you don’t want explained to the governor or the general.”

  “We are all God’s creatures,” Hancock said in a stern tone, as if scolding Duncan.

  Duncan was tired and had little tolerance for the games Hancock liked to play. He wanted nothing more than to return to the boardinghouse for a quiet meal with Sarah Ramsey to plan their return to Edentown. “Need I ask whether I came here as a favor to the governor or as a favor to the Sons of Liberty?”

  “Sergeant Mallory has provided valuable assistance to us, keeping us apprised of expected customs inspections.”

  “He’ll have the devil of the time explaining himself when he shows up at his barracks.”

  “No, he won’t,” Hancock replied, wa
rning back in his voice. “When he leaves here, he will leave his uniform behind.”

  Duncan sighed and looked back at the unconscious man’s face. “A deserter, then. Even more dangerous. Did I save his life just so he could be hanged?”

  Hancock’s only answer was to pour two fingers of the smoky Scotch into a pewter cup for Duncan. When Duncan lowered the empty cup, the merchant nodded approvingly, then motioned him toward the shadows along the back wall of the chamber. The dim outline of a door became visible as Duncan approached. The merchant pushed on its iron latch and stepped aside for him to enter.

  The chamber appeared to be a small workshop where casks and barrels were repaired, or perhaps spirits diluted and decanted into bottles. A long oaken workbench took up much of the dimly lit room, leaving only three or four feet of clearance between it and the walls. Conawago sat on a stool at one end of the bench, his head bowed, a string of white beads in his hand as he whispered in his ancient tongue. At the other end, a large man with a dark, fleshy face sat bent over his clasped hands as he quietly recited a prayer in Latin. Between them lay most of a dead man.

  First the living, Hancock had said when he arrived. Duncan retreated a step. He did not understand what lay before him, except for the reverence, which he would not disturb. Hancock gripped his arm and pushed him back into the room. “I’m sorry, Duncan, but people talk. You may recall that there was an Indian on the crew you took to Bermuda. He said later that he had recognized you, that people on the frontier call you the Deathspeaker.”

  Duncan’s breath caught. He desperately did not want to become Death-speaker for the people of Boston, did not want the burden of grief and anguish that always came in speaking for the dead. “That’s among the Iroquois.”

  As if in answer, Hancock swept his open palm toward the dead man.

  Duncan did not understand, saying, “I prefer to help the living.”

  “And that, Highlander, is what we ask of you,” came a gravelly voice from behind him.

  There was only one man in Boston who used that name for Duncan. “Mr. Adams?” Duncan asked, half turning.

  Samuel Adams’s broad girth was draped in a cloak, his round face hidden under a large tricorn hat, which he removed as he approached. “These are desperate hours, lad.”

  Foreboding washed over Duncan like a dark, frigid wave. “I made a promise to Sarah,” he protested. “We are going home.”

  “Of course, of course,” Adams confirmed. “But first we just want to know about this man’s death. We need you to”—he searched for words—“interpret his death in the manner of this mysterious Deathspeaker.”

  Duncan gestured at the stumps below the body’s hips. “Perhaps you noticed he has no legs. He no doubt bled to death, if the shock of having them blown off didn’t take him first. A common enough sight on a battlefield.” He hesitated, weighing his own words. There were no battlefields in Boston.

  “Tell us the story of his death, prithee,” Adams pressed. “Casual appearances can be misleading, even with the dead. It is vital that we have the truth in this business. Much hangs in the balance.”

  “Business?” Duncan asked, then studied Hancock and Adams. The two men wore many hats in Boston, but he realized that here, in this secret subterranean chamber, they were the city’s most prominent members of the Sons of Liberty. The Sons had been staging frequent public rallies and were not shy about leaving their name on broadsides throughout the city, but Duncan well knew that their most important affairs were conducted far from the public eye. Their numbers had been swelling after smugglers began benefiting from the Sons’ secret warnings of revenue patrols and tradesmen received advance notice of the planned rounds of tax collectors. He turned toward Conawago, hoping for an explanation. The old man, who had steadfastly kept his head down, looked up, pleading in his eyes, then pointedly down at the white wampum beads he clutched in his hand. It was message enough. The beads represented a covenant with the tribal spirits, an obligation to speak the truth at the table.

  “What was his name?” Duncan asked in a near whisper.

  Adams nodded in gratitude. “Jonathan Pine.”

  Duncan glanced back at Hancock, now understanding his gesture when he had said his skills were used for the Iroquois. He did not know the dead man, but he knew the name. With renewed sadness he looked back at Conawago, who was bent over the bench again, reciting prayers of the forest. The dead man had a strong, leathery face, his black hair tied at the back in the short, blocked braid favored by seamen. Over his torso he wore a heavy woolen pullover that had rows of woven knots and cables, probably a product of Ireland or Scotland, which appeared perforated with small holes. His britches, stained with tar and singed at the uneven tears where they had been severed with his legs, were of heavy duck fabric, probably sailcloth. On the back of one of his hands crossed over his chest were inked the words The Lord is my Shepherd. On the other was a rattlesnake, so intricate it almost looked like scrimshaw work. Tattooed on his neck was a line of fish. The man was a sailor, a Christian, and a native of the woodlands. Jonathan Pine was a name commonly given to baptized Indians.

  Duncan looked back at the gentle old Nipmuc at the end of the table. Conawago’s words seemed to be drifting, the volume ebbing and rising, as he gazed desolately at the stumps of Pine’s legs. At the end of each were splinters of bone and tangles of ligaments, muscles, and blood vessels. Duncan would have expected them to be bloodier. He ran his fingers over the charred remnants of the britches. The fabric was damp. Pine had been in the water after his legs were blown off. He turned to Hancock and Adams, who silently watched from the doorway. “The ship that exploded. Pine was on the Arcturus.”

  Hancock fingered his starched white collar. “Did he drown?”

  Duncan moved to Pine’s head, pushing down the dead man’s abdomen as he bent over his mouth. Air rushed out of the lungs. “He did not.”

  “Did he die in the explosion?” Adams pressed.

  “My God, man,” Livingston, standing at Hancock’s shoulder, inserted. “He was close enough to it that his legs were blown away. Do you even need to ask?”

  Duncan saw the worry on Hancock’s face and realized he did need to ask. He gazed at the dead man. He could not fathom the motives of the three men who watched so carefully, so nervously, and who were known for their clever manipulation of pieces on political chessboards. He felt Conawago’s beseeching gaze. The old man knew that Duncan felt a duty to the dead, especially dead tribesmen and clansmen, and they had sometimes debated the reason why. Perhaps it was because nearly all of Duncan’s own Highland clan were dead, slaughtered by the English, and though he still spoke to them, they never replied. Perhaps it was because the tribesmen who had become his de facto family believed that those who died unexpectedly had to be given resolution before they could move on to the spirit world. Perhaps it was because his medical education in Edinburgh had so acutely sharpened his curiosity about the human body. Whatever the reason, he was the Deathspeaker, and Jonathan Pine had a story to be told.

  “I will need help with the body,” Duncan declared to the onlookers.

  Hancock stepped to the door and called out. A moment later Enoch Munro was at Duncan’s side, nodding at Duncan’s instructions for baring Pine’s torso. With a cool, steady hand, Munro cut away the pullover, revealing more than two dozen splinters that had impaled Pine’s chest and abdomen. None of the puncture wounds looked fatal, but the splinters had been driven deep into his flesh. Duncan extracted a two-inch shard of wood from his belly. It was oak, and slightly curved, as if from a barrel or keg, probably from the keg of powder that had exploded.

  Pine may have been a Christian, but he had not forgotten the tribal ways. The tattoos on his chest were aligned along either side of a cross over his heart, but the life they reflected had not always been sanctimonious. The story of his existence began on his right shoulder, with small images of a stag and a pumpkin over a larger one of an eel, domestic images of life as a member of the eel clan. T
hen came a figure standing over a bear, another standing in a canoe with a massive fish, then the same figure standing over a dead soldier, and a final one leading a roped chain of prisoners. Underneath the row of images was inked a strand of wampum beads. Duncan studied the pattern of dark and lighter beads and looked up at Conawago. “Seneca?” he asked. The old man confirmed with a nod.

  On the other side of the cross were images of a different life. Oddly, in the first, a man was dancing with a bear. In the second, a man climbed the shrouds of a square-rigged ship, then aimed a harpoon at a great whale in the third. The last, which Duncan could make no real sense of, was of a seagull carrying a snake.

  He straightened and studied parallel scratches along the edges of Pine’s rib cage. Spreading the cold flesh with his fingers, he discovered that they were precise cuts, shallow five-inch-long slices made by a thin blade. They were not death blows, nor wounds incurred from the explosion.

  Duncan paused, looking at the strongly featured face, then at the tattoo of the warrior standing over a dead soldier. The Senecas were the westernmost tribe of the Haudenosaunee, the Iroquois Confederacy, so closely aligned with the French that many had fought against the English in the recent war. He could not discern whether the uniform on the dead soldier inked on Pine’s chest was French or English.

  The hands of a man tell his life story, one of Duncan’s Scottish professors had told him. But Duncan found that they more often told a man’s death story. Pine’s hands surprised him. Their backs had been perforated by tiny splinters. The palms bore the usual calluses of the seaman, but the long, well-proportioned fingers gave them an oddly graceful nature, like those of an artist. The Lord is my Shepherd, he read again on the right hand, then turned it over. The palm was sliced so deeply that the ivory white of a carpal bone could be seen. Munro took his cue and reversed the left hand for Duncan, then abruptly dropped it. A sea worm was writhing inside a deep puncture in the heel of the hand. Duncan plucked out the creature and probed the wound. It had been a stab with a thin blade, like a dagger. He paused over the fingertips of the three middle fingers, which were badly burned. The wrists of each hand were severely chafed, the skin broken in several places.